


I just really miss (talking to) you

by id_ten_it



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft in the field, Mystrade Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 08:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: For Mystrade Monday "I just really miss talking to you" AND "I'm scared".Mycroft is on a mission, until he isn't.Gregory is sleeping with memories, until he isn't.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Kudos: 44





	I just really miss (talking to) you

It is dark. Mycroft feels the weight of the darkness, of the night pressing in from all sides, of the choices that led him here.  
It is so dark there’s no difference between his eyes being open or shut.  
It is so dark he barely has words to describe how very, impossibly, impenetrably, unbelievably, dark it is.

Irrelevantly, he remembers it is light back in England. His partner is probably striding along the street right now bathed in light and breathing freely.  
Mycroft sips in slivers of air, worried any disturbance will alert somebody to his presence. When he is working like this, utterly focused, his family’s words normally don’t enter his head, but this time their taunts – how much space he takes up, how much heat he gives off, how _much_ he is – whisper in his ear. They are seductive. They tempt him to gasp in air, to push forward, to do more, be more, achieve more.

They don’t understand that he can achieve the most by sitting absolutely still and waiting.

***

Some time goes by. He perches, like a spider awaiting a shiver of the web, sure it is nearly time. A little more time tiptoes by and still he barely breathes, barely shifts.  
_Could outwait Old Father Time himself_ Mummy used to say, when Mycroft perched by the pantry door like he perches now _Not that he’ll grow old, eating like that._  
The spider carefully tenses muscles, wriggles extremities, ensures everything is in readiness. He is rewarded with a lightening of the darkness, the gradual dawning of a grudging greyness, the sensation rather than the actualisation of light.

Voices, barely discernible over the earth pressing down on him, whisper.  
“What if they find me?”  
“They won’t find you. It’s safe here.”  
“They’re clever. They could find me.”  
“I tell you Pyotr, this is safe. They won’t find you. Surely you’re not scared? Scared of rich men and their vanity.”  
“Fine. I’m scared. Not of the rich men, but the young ones – the ones who still believe – I’m scared of them. They’ll obey orders and not realise they’re beyond foolish to get into this place.”  
“Don’t be scared. Here.”  
Bright light, illuminating a sparse room. Mycroft closed one eye instantly, frozen out of sight further under the mountain. He wasn’t young, and he didn’t believe.  
He didn’t believe, he _knew_.  
He knew he could talk his way in and out of the area, could move like a ghost when he wasn’t working on high level meetings not a day’s drive from this ‘abandoned’ mountain.

Time crept by. Pyotr and his guide played chess, cards, slapped nicotine patches on themselves, ate cold food. Mycroft worked his way to the room next door, winking his eyes depending on the illumination he was moving through. Eventually he was nearby, and Pyotr’s guide had melted back to the upperworld. It was just the two of them. Silently, the British Government let itself into an enemy’s holding cell, sat down, and started the laborious work of creating a double agent. It was alright. It was night. He had the time. And now, he could breathe.

***

It is dark. Mycroft feels the weight of the darkness, of the night pressing in from all sides, of the choices that led him here. It is so dark there’s barely a difference between the door on his left – into the formal reception space – and the yawning gulf to his right – up the stairs to their rooms.

Irrelevantly, he remembers it is fading light back in Crimea. His newly-minted agent is probably preparing for the next stage of his journey to the not-a-real-conflict conflict zone, breathing the fear-tinged air and shivering in his low-quality puffer jacket. Mycroft breathes deeply, savouring the scent of home, wondering if the man upstairs will realise he is here. His partner is the first person in an eon to not tell him how he is too busy, too lazy, too selfish, too absorbed, too _much_. His partner merely is glad that he is. It is far and away his most seductive quality, and he has a striking physique.

Mycroft smiles to himself, stows his outwear on the hooks and shelves by the door, and slips upstairs. There’s a warm orange glow inviting him into the bedroom and, nonsensically, he knocks before entering his own bedroom. “Evening Gregory.”  
“Hmm?” The arrestingly attractive man half-sprawled over the bed starts, scrambling upright and shedding book, glasses, and a shirt that looks rather like Mycroft’s favoured pyjama top. “You’re home early.”  
“Mmm. Something about good behaviour. Give me a moment.” Mycroft refreshes himself, ablutes, and pads through to Greg’s side of the bed in just his suit trousers and half-unbuttoned shirt. “Everything went fine. Trust me on that.”  
“Course. Everything went fine here too.” Gregory leant up for a kiss, smiling a smile that felt to his partner like warm steel-cut porridge on a frosty morning.  
“I’m glad to hear it.” It was easy to remember how to smile in this safe space, “don’t suppose I could have my shirt back?”  
“Just missed you.” Greg pouted, returning it, “sleeping with you. Eating with you. Even just really missed talking to you.”  
“You say that as though talking to me is not something you normally consider a pleasure.”  
“Normally I’ve gotta learn big words. Memory-Mycroft understands little words.”  
Mycroft chuckled, removing his shirt just so he could put on the much-desired pyjama top, nodded at the book. “looks to me like memory-Mycroft might have been traded in for an old classic.”  
“Hard to go past Fiennes. Easy read, though he’s a bit stuck up.” Greg’s fingers lingered briefly over a new scar, then traced his partner’s face. “Looks like you’re suggesting something.”  
“Given the track record of even that short conversation, I should suggest something other than talking.”  
“God, don’t you ever get tired?”  
“You spur me on.” Greg laughed at the absurdity, and was soon groaning helplessly at the proof.


End file.
